


The Road to Home is Paved with Good Intentions

by Clandistine1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2018-08-27 23:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8420569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clandistine1/pseuds/Clandistine1
Summary: Stuck in a different world, I have to deal with shit. Better summary inbound. My obligatory first attempt at a proper SI story. Explores unreliable narration and how far one would be willing to go, to go home.





	1. Counterfeit 1.1

So… I died.

Well, probably at least. I’m not actually sure. I cannot remember for the life of me what happened. Ha. For the life of me. Oh god, if being dead brings an onset of bad puns, just kill me now…

At the very least, I have this feeling that I am dead, some unshakable belief that my life is over. And that is sad. Or it’s supposed to be, I’m feeling rather ambivalent about it.

Presuming that I’m actually dead, this really screws up any theological non-belief that I had. Isn’t that dandy. Oh well. Not much I can do about it, being dead and all that jazz.

Time seems to flow oddly here. Wherever here is. I feel no sensory inputs, only a distinct feeling that there is **me** and _not-me_. I don’t think I like _not-me_ very much. It’s very empty.

 

Some time passes. Or maybe it doesn’t. It is exceedingly hard to tell. But finally, I _feel_ something. A call, specifically for me. I _move_ towards it, my transcendent form drawn out into the infinite distance. I draw close, and see… is that an entire world? It’s something great, a massive expanse of _things_ inside of _nothing_. There is a word for this… it… it’s a plane, isn’t it? It _feels_ like that.

Something is calling me from this plane. Someone. Basic details start to trickle into my mind, a contract of sorts. The exact specifics… I do something for somebody in exchange for something. Holy hell, how bloody vague.

I feel somebody else. I know that it’s a being of unimaginable power. And… it is mediating the contract? The being specifically punted it my way. Why would it do that?

I feel that I have a choice in the matter. Either I can take the contract, or I could choose to stay floating in the void, forever. As much as the latter option does not appeal to me, the former is throwing up many red flags. What would I be doing? What would I get in return?

The answers come from the being. I would essentially be summoned by somebody, and they would propose a contract to me. Should I agree, I would be bound by the terms of the agreement. Once completed, or dismissed I would be able to return home. Home. **My** real home. I would be literally given my life back.

Now that I was reminded about it, I felt the ache in my metaphorical heart. I missed my mother, father and two little brothers. I missed **home**.

I turn to the being. The Contractor. It assures me that it could, and would return me home. After my contract had been concluded.

It was a no-brainer. And considering I had no brain… not quite sure where I was going with that. The point was I accepted the invitation for the contract.

And… nothing happens. I look up towards the Contractor and get an overwhelming feeling of second-hand embarrassment and schadenfreude from it. I’ve totally messed up something, haven’t I? It gently pushes me towards the plane, and I contact the-

 

The world swirls into view, I’m standing- no, floating in the corner of a small room. Decrepit wooden floorboards, a dusty four poster bed, and faded gold and royal blue sixteenth century wallpaper adorn the chamber. Spooky. I can see a pale, bald man in a lovely suit with an odd purple sash and cloak combo. He seems to be wearing some sort of head covering. A turban? I also see a ghostly ball of light next to him, a manifestation of the Contractor, my newfound senses confirm.

_“Considering just how limited your contribution was, this is the best I can offer you”_ the Contractor’s brightness seems to fluctuate with every word, _“it is essentially a blank slate, no existing power to speak of, but intelligent and knowledgeable. If anything, it appears perfect for what you wish.”_

I feel like I missed quite a large amount of their conversation. I also feel like I’ve been not so subtly insulted and complemented. I’m not sure how to feel about that.

“V-very well. It will do,” the bald man turns to address me, “d-do you agree to serve my master until he vanquishes his foe?”

I stand- float there, a little stunned for a while. I had truly expected the contract to come with a certain level of rules lawyering, excessive defining and a level of specification. I mean, I still don’t even know who I am serving and who this foe is. A quick mental consult with the Contractor assures me that this is okay, that the magic behind the contract would both accept his master and foe when he introduced them, and would force me to obey the spirit of the agreement, not the seriously poor wording.

Screw it. I could spend forever dithering over this or that, but in the end, I _really_ want to go home, and I won’t let anybody stand in my way. 

“I accept,” my voice is not too different from my old English accent, perhaps a little less gravely. I suppose that would have to do with not having a damaged voice box. Or not having a larynx at all.

_“My work here is complete. I will return at the conclusion of the contract.”_ The Contractor’s light goes out, and the ghostly wisps of smoke dissipate.

I continue to float, unsure of what to do next, until I feel a stirring feeling deep within me. Suddenly I feel a pale clay like material begin to extrude itself from where I sto- goddammit, I really needed to get used to floating.

It keeps moving, becoming a large blob that continues to expand lengthwise towards the ground. I would try to explain its shape better, but a longish blob is pretty damn accurate. Wait, it isn’t accurate anymore. It appears to be creating two appen- no four appendages off the main form… It’s creating a body, isn’t it? Just as I was getting used to floating too.

Over the course of a few moments the body forms. Small and undetailed, it resembled a scaled up doll. The only place anatomically correct was the face. I presume. It felt that way anyway. Looking out of the eyes of my new body, I make a show of examining my hands. They appeared to be smooth with no visible callouses or even veins under the surface. But as informative as that was, there was another reason. I have honestly no clue what to do next, and decided to punt the ball into his court, so to speak, studiously ignoring him until he did something.

It appears that my scheme worked, “take this,” he stutters as he hands me his cloak. Ah, clothes, how have I missed you. Draping the huge cloak around my shoulders and tugging it closed around me, it pools around my feet.

“F-for n-now you can wear this. I-I’ll acquire something more suitable later,” his stuttering is something atrocious, perhaps a speech therapist is in order? “Let me adjust that,” he says as he brandishes something at me.

What is he… he swishes a stick around and suddenly the cloak morphs into a robe of sorts.

Holy hell. A magic wand. And magic. And… I’m not sure if I should be surprised at this point, but I really am. Between death and now, a few unbelievable things have happened. Magic, sure why not.

I suppose the next step is to figure out what the hell is going on.

“Uh…,” great start, “what-who am, I mean…” I sigh. This was going nowhere fast, “I suppose I should ask who you are, and who your master is.” That’s probably a good point as any to start from.

“My name is Quirinus Quirrell,” good to know- wait, what, “and my master is the Dark Lord Voldemort.”

On one hand, his stutter seems to have completely disappeared. On the other, holy shit I just entered into a contract with Tom Riddle to kill Harry Potter.

Alright, calm down. What do I know at this point? I’ve been contracted by Quirinus Quirrell to help ‘vanquish’ Harry Potter on behalf of Lord Voldemort. Beyond that? All of my knowledge beyond that is suspect and probably should not be relied upon.

What is going to happen next? I’m not sure, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t think Quirrell knows what to do next either. Considering his stuttering before, I think he was rather nervous about everything. As such, I think it might be best to capitalize upon my foreknowledge and try to repair his image of me after my less than graceful opening question.

“I presume that makes my foe one Harry James Potter?” My god, I sound like a pretentious cunt.

“Indeed he is.” Perhaps a little less verbose a response than I would like. In fact, I would rather that he steer the conversation. Oh well, might as well get to the meat of the situation

“What would your master have me do?”

He pauses for a few moments, as if collecting his thoughts “My- Our Lord would have you join Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry so that you may ingrain yourself amongst his enemies.”

“A double agent of sorts?”

“Quite.” Huh. That’s surprisingly doable. Considering that I have no skills nor assets it’s probably the only thing I can do.

“Alright, what do I need to do now?”

“Nothing. I will be going to Hogwarts soon, where I will be able to bewitch your name into the attendance list.”

“What about my backstory? And what will I do in the meantime?”

“That can be determined this afternoon, once I figure out what attendance details I will be able to confound into the list.” Interesting. That implies that he may have difficulty with doing it. Then again, I have no actual clue what that entails. “As for now, you can wait here.”

He must have seen the discontent on my face as he quickly added “I can give you one of the defence against the dark arts textbooks that you will be studying this year. I will be gone for a few hours at most.”

“Alright, that will be fine,” I acquiesced. I had to, really. What else could I do?

 

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection. What a name for a textbook. I wish half of my textbooks back home were this interesting.

“What on Earth am I going to do with myself?” I mutter to nobody. Despite how fascinating the book was, I’ve constantly found myself staring into space, thinking in circles. Home. I’ve spent an eternity in the void beyond this world. Going home sounds really nice. If it means that I have to spend a few years learning magic and cosying up to Potter, so be it.

My situation is really odd. Like, really, really odd. There is no precedent for anything like this in Harry Potter canon, nor is there any real reason I can think of as to why this happened. Why would Quirrelmort need to arrange a contract? Why me? And now that I think about it, why would he feel confident in just leaving me here with little more than a school textbook?

Judging by the way that he ordered me just to wait, I bet he expected me to be a simpleminded construct, or something along those lines. The Contractor said ‘a blank slate’ after all. I wonder how accurate this train of thought is…

Speaking of constructs, what the hell am I? When I was first ‘summoned’ to this plane, I felt formless and I’d bet that I looked just like the Contractor did; an ethereal ball of lights. Now I have this… this homunculus body. Running my fingers over myself, I find that my previous remarks about my body’s form were fairly accurate. There appears to be no details on the vast majority of the body. No fold lines in the skin, no blotches, no discolorations of any kind. Completely genderless. Hell, there are no tactile or visible details below my neck.

My face feels smooth, but not quite to the same extent as the rest of my body. Every feature feels fully formed, from the small nose to the full complement of teeth. Including wisdom teeth. Huh.

“So…” I articulate insightfully, “I have two possible situations, either this world is close to canon, which should go smoothly, or a world which is, uh… different.”

Regardless of which, I really should try to ingrain myself to Harry on the first train ride to Hogwarts. There is no real point in planning for the myriad of possibilities of a noncanon world, so I should plan around canon themes and adapt from that.

So, ‘How to Engineer Friendships and Inevitable Betrayals; The Speedrun Edition’: Meet Harry on train, do something, also Hermione, don’t be a cunt, don’t drown on the boat ride, do sorting, force hat to put me in the same house as Harry, the end of plan.

Not bad, if I do say so myself.

 

My friends and I used to make fun of each other all the time. If one of us was about to have a hard assignment or a crappy work shift, we ritually would tell them ‘to have a shit one’.

I think I can hear them hollering it to me in the void between the worlds.


	2. Counterfeit 1.2

I was sitting back on the bed, curiously noticing that the dust didn’t make my eyes itch or nose twitch. Ha, I’m a poet, and I didn’t even suspect it.

Anyway, that was supposed to be a segue to Quirrell returning from doing the various nefarious things that Quirrell needed to do. Like paperwork.

“I have secured you both an identity, and a place at Hogwarts. I will have to explain this to you now before we can proceed.”

An eyebrow rose involuntarily. That felt horribly stilted. Like he… I’m gonna have to set a few things straight with him.

“Quirrell, before we begin, I do have to ask; what exactly do you think I am?” I try to keep my voice level with a tinge of amused curiosity. I don’t think I really succeed.

He practically starts at that, “I-I honestly don’t quite know. A spirit animating this body?”

“Well. I can’t deny that,” because that sounds just about right, “but I was thinking more about, well. I’m not entirely sure how to put it. Directly after you, uh, contracted me, I got the feeling that you thought I was little more than a golem of sorts. Am I correct?” Good god, he looks petrified, “I won’t be upset if you thought so.”

That assurance seems to be enough to get him to respond, his paled face slowly reddening again, “I must admit that I thought so.”

“Well, to put those thoughts to rest, you should think of me as a human. Mentally, I am fairly close to one, anyway.” In the same way that ten is fairly close to ten.

“Very well,” he stutters out. His voice is as consistent as the position of an electron. All over the place.

A few seconds pass, neither of us sure of what to say next. Oh wait, I know.

“My identity?”

Quirrell procures a manila looking folder from his robes and starts to ruffle through it.

“While I was preparing for your summoning,” his voice suddenly becomes dangerously smooth, “I looked around for a suitable offering. It had to be out of the way, and importantly, not something that would be missed.”

This sounds really promising. And super dubious. And ominous.

“So isn’t it a shame that a muggle family of three went missing, just two days ago?” He looks up from the papers to give me what I feel is the beginning of a feral smile. “And isn’t it just a perfect coincidence that they had an eleven-year-old daughter, who looks just like you do?”

Wait, what does any of that… Offering?

Oh

I lock up the muscles in my face. I really don’t want to react to this at all. Not in his presence.

Perhaps he doesn’t notice clenching of my jaw, or he just doesn’t care, he hands me the folder, and begins to walk out of the room.

“We’ll arrange for you to be ‘found’ by the muggle policemen sometime later. Before then, study the files and prepare any suggestions you might have. I will be back in a few hours, Taylor.”

oh

 

Well. That’s, uh. It’s, like. Not my problem?

 

Who am I kidding.

 

I lie there on the bed, tears brimming in my eyes. Looking at the first page, I see a young smiling face looking back at me. Taylor Cochlain. Tears drop as I look over school reports, medicals, missing person accounts. It appears that Quirrell just grabbed anything he could find on her. No rhyme or reason to the files. If it was major and had her name on it… my name on it, it was there.

If I'm reading into it right, Quirrell… disappeared these people to summon me.

 

I just want to go home.


	3. Counterfeit 1.3

Three hours of pouring over every detail of this family’s life, and I still don’t quite see how this will work. Never mind the ethical implic- Voldemort doesn’t care, therefore it won’t be a problem.

Well. There were three files. One for Taylor and two for her parents. Quentin and Caetlin Cochlain.

Taylor was a fairly typical young girl. I suppose. I wouldn’t actually know.

As I scan the files, I notice a few similarities between Taylor and my previous life. Both of us have pale skin with freckles, auburn hair and both of us were born on the 30th of September. Actually, that is one of the most common birthdates in the world, but it still seems mildly odd. Then again, I suppose we both are of Irish/Scottish decent.

Her primary school records are not particularly interesting. Normal grades, a few notes mentioning that she has trouble making friends, yada, yada, yada. Her medical files are not too useful either. It’s not like I’ll ever need them, considering that I’m about to enter the magical world. That, and that a kid her age would never actually know that sort of information about herself. If I am to pretend to be Taylor convincingly, I’ll have to moderate what I learn. Or something. Actually, I’ll just wing it.

Quirrell was right when he said that he had found an out of the way family that nobody would miss. They had moved to London from Ireland only a week ago. They hadn’t even registered Taylor for school here yet. No living relatives and no known acquaintances in London. A perfect family to disappear.

Or, in this case, to masquerade as. I’m not entirely sure what Quirrell wants to do, but it appears that I’ll be taking the role of Taylor.

Thinking of the devil, I’ve just realized that I’ve only seen Quirrell, not Voldemort. Which means that I should be careful and not reveal that I know Voldemort is under the turban. Doing so may cause complications I really don’t want to deal with.

Speaking of the devil, Quirrell walks into the room.

“Have you gone over the files sufficiently?”

“I have gone over them, but I still don’t quite understand what is going to happen.” I just manage to keep my voice level. It still comes out fairly subdued.

“The current plan is to drop you off in London. The muggle police will then pick you up, question you and take care of you. Soon, you will receive a Hogwarts supply letter, and a Professor will take you to Diagon Alley to purchase your school supplies. The school term starts soon, so you will meet me at Hogwarts then. Any questions?”

I seriously didn’t like that at all.

“Yeah, why do we have to involve the muggles at all? It would be much simpler to skip that entirely.”

“How so?”

“Because going to the police would both mean that I have a record in the Muggle system, which would make things difficult when I need to go to Hogwarts. You, or somebody would have to notify the orphanage, explain magic and then prevent the police and child protective services from checking up on me. Far too much work. Besides, I would probably end up in an orphanage, which I would really rather not happen.”

Quirrell starts to protest, but pauses and then acquiesces. “What would you suggest then?”

“Just use a little magic to put me in an apartment near magical London. A memory modification or compulsion for the landlord, nothing too difficult. Then give me a little money, perhaps what remains of the Cochlain’s bank accounts. I would then be able to take care of myself for the next while and stay of the government’s radar.”

He nods, and I’m fairly surprised that he understands the radar comment. “That all makes sense, but how would you deal with the Professor coming to visit?”

I do have to frown at that. Not entirely sure… “Can you ensure that you are the Professor?”

“Not to any great level of certainty.”

Blast. “Would they believe me if I said that staying alone in an apartment is a perfectly valid muggle arrangement?”

“I… To be perfectly honest, it may just work. If you can think of a convincing enough reason between now and their visit, you may be able to get around. It. Are you certain you can do that?”

“I am.”

“Good. As it stands, you will have a lot of leeway in executing your orders. Do not disappoint our master.”

“I will not.” This is getting surreal. Again. Oh, I just had a thought, “Oh, I just had a thought, what about the Hogwarts acceptance letter? Will I be getting one of those too?”

“Not quite. Hogwarts sends out its acceptance letters on the birthday of the child in question, but the supply letter usually comes later, once all of the teaching positions have been filled. Since ‘your’ birthday was last year, I changed the records to show that you have already received and responded to your letter. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

And just like that, he fucks off again. Fucking hell, that’s annoying. I mean, can’t he just do everything he needs to do in one go?

Well. This gives me an excellent opportunity to plan.

Actually, since I work for an evil bloke, does this mean I plot? Scheme? I’ve always wanted to scheme and plot. I guess that’s one upside for all of this.

So. The Plan™. Well, I’ll have to get settled in to my apartment. Then get supplies and food and shit. Then… School supplies? Yeah, I suppose. Then I’ll need to plot and scheme my way around whoever decides to visit me.

Wait, that goes before school supplies. This is why you should never let me plan things.

Anyway, I suppose I’ll just have to hang around for the next while until school starts. Joy of joys.

After that? Just wing it. Oh, I suppose I should get my hands on a Daily Prophet subscription. That would probably help with figuring out what on earth is going on in this world.

Oh would you look at that. Quirrell just fluttered back into the room like a particularly violent butterfly.

What does that mean?

Looks like I’m never going to find out, because Quirrell has tossed me some clothes and waltzed back out.

I cannot fathom why Quirrell would know what appropriate clothing for an eleven-year-old girl are, but he seems to have nailed it. A lovely blue shirt, jeans, underclothes and a grey jacket of sorts.

I quickly swap the transfigured robe for the clothes, sighing as I put on the first set of real clothes for this lifetime. There is something very nice about wearing a jacket and tucking your hands into your pockets when you haven’t done it in an eternity.

Standing tall and proud like the snotty eleven-year-old I’m supposed to be, I face my destiny as Quirrell re-re-renters the room.

That sounds really fucking stupid.


	4. Counterfeit 1.4

It is official. Apparating is the scariest and most mind-bendingly ludicrous thing I’ve ever encountered. Quirrell told me that we were going to leave, grabbed me by the shoulder and, poof, we were gone. To be perfectly pedantic, it sounded just like a muffled bang, but that was overshadowed by the insane sensation of twisting into a pretzel while being shoved down a straw.

And if that imagery wasn’t vivid enough, just imagine being squished against roll of gladwrap by Michael Jackson’s face. Weird, plastic and downright unsettling.

We popped into existence in a lane somewhere near Charing Cross road. Not that I knew that at the time. The point was, we suddenly existed in the lane. Well, I say existed, but I honestly felt like death, again. There was a churning in my gut and my head threated to go on strike. I had to lean against a wall for quite some time before I felt comfortable enough stand by myself.

I do have to say, Quirrell stood there patiently, something I really didn’t quite expect. I sort of expected that he would be fairly belittling towards me, but he wasn’t. He even offered me his hand with a light smile when we left the lane. I am not ashamed to admit that I took it with no hesitation.

I realise that Quirrell is actually not the worst person ever. I suppose that he is a teacher. Actually, didn’t Hagrid say something about him being a nice fella while he was at school? Maybe.

Moving forward, we walked a while before arriving at an apartment building. An apartment building that we now stood in front of. It actually looks like a kinda nice place. It’s got fairly typical 1970’s boring concrete architecture, but at least it isn’t a 1960’s building. They are eldritch horrors unto themselves.

We walk in silence into the elevator, passing the empty lobby and only stopping for Quirrell to figure out which button to press. Apparently this is a difficult decision, but he chooses the seventh floor. Bold choice, given the importance of the number seven in this world. Who am I kidding, it’s totally meaningless in this context.

We escape the elevator music with years taken off our vaguely immortal lifespans, before stopping before room 703.

“This is where we shall part. Your room is permanently yours, all fees are waived and the like, as far as the landlord is concerned.” He hands me a set of keys, “You shall find some supplies inside. Beyond that, I will see you at Hogwarts in a few days.”

And he fucks off again.

Ignoring that in favour of opening the door to my new abode, I find myself fairly impressed with Quirrell. For a wizard to not fuck up something like style or practicality is almost unheard of, yet, here I stand in a lovely modern apartment. White walls, fake marble countertops, stainless steel fridge, pale blue couch. Ew, puke green skirtings. Well, I thought I might see some traditional 1990’s colour schemes in here.

On the countertop is a pile of paperwork, another key for the room and a purse. I reach out for it, oh my, that is REAL marble, and take a peek inside. I see… money. Lots of money. More money than can actually fit in a purse of that size.

I stick a finger into the purse. Two fingers. My hand. Up to my wrist. Up to my elbow. Up to my shoulder.

Fucking magic.

An… undetectable expansion charm, I think.

Super neat.

It seems that he took my suggestion literally and just withdrew the family’s entire bank account.

Somebody had been really busy in the few moments between when I suggested doing this, and him dropping me off.

Anyway, I look through the house. A three-bedroom apartment with a living room and kitchen. Neato.

Wat do now?

Now? I'm getting a fucking coffee and then dealing with all this shit later.

 

 

 

And that is exactly have I have done. I found a nice looking café just along the road, popped in and asked for a flat white. I got the weirdest fucking look from the guy at the counter before he asked again what I wanted. I slowly asked for a flat white again, carefully enunciating my words, but alas, it was all for naught.

And that is how I learnt the hard way that nobody in London knows what a flat white is. To be fair, when I lived in America in the late 2000’s nobody there knew what they were either, being an Australian-New Zealander invention, but still. I thought the mother country might just be civilized, but apparently that’s just not true. I had to settle for a cappuccino.

Actually, that was difficult in itself. After he got over the whole ‘what’s a flat white you fucking annoying little shit’ phase, he then had the nerve to ask if that’s what I really wanted, saying some rubbish about coffee not being good for little kids. Boy, I gave him a piece of my mind.

And by that, I mean that I politely replied that I wanted a cappuccino.

I'm not actually snarky with people I don’t know. That’s sorta a dick move.

Speaking of dick moves, he gave me a fucking babycino. If you don’t know what that is, it’s just a small cup of milk froth.

Boy, I stormed up to the counter and gave him a reaming of a lifetime and then everybody started to clap and then the manager fired him and congratu-

I don’t have the energy to make this shit up anymore. I went up. Got a replacement from a less condescending staff member, thanked her a lot, end of story.

But it is much less interesting that way.

 

 

And here I am shopping for various shit. For now, I’ll just grab some easy to cook food, and simple cleaning equipment. I’m not going to be able to carry everything that I need now. I’m a small little… eldritch abomination of sorts. Not a twenty-year-old anymore.

I’m not a twenty-year-old anymore.

I sigh as I carry the bucket full of cleaning supplies back to my residence. I need to be able to definitively prove to whichever teacher rocks up for supply shopping that I can take care of myself.

Also, I need to actually take care of myself. That’s probably more important now than it was before. I’m a growing homunculus, I need my protein ‘n stuff. I won’t have parents looking after me and making sure that I'm alright.

I walk the rest of the way to my new household in silence. I really don’t want to think about home anymore. I don’t want to miss them.


	5. Counterfeit 1.5

I must say that I'm not entirely a stranger to situations like this. That is not to say that I know what it is like to be contracted to a dark lord to help him kill a kid, but I do know what it is like to be worlds away from my family. Between the ages of twelve and eighteen, I lived in a boarding house in Australia, while my family lived in America. Dad’s job kept moving us around the world, so my parents thought it would be a good idea to me to go to a single school for high school.

It certainly worked. I had no real trouble being away from them for upwards of a year and a half at a time. Mind you, it was usually only a few months, but I hope it illustrates that I am a strong, independent, black woman, hear me roar.

Wait. That’s not true at all.

Point is, I am rather used to dealing with the things I had to deal with setting up my new life here. I practically did it every year at the boarding house. On my first day, after the adventures with the coffee and such, I just bought the most basic equipment, food and a bucket. Don’t judge me. I can use it as a foot stool so I can actually reach the stove.

Speaking of, I have no pans or pots, so I had to settle with microwaved soup. Which worked nicely without any cups or bowls. I will not dignify how I managed to do this, nor eat it without spoons, but it was glorious and fucking retarded.

I'm so glad I got a bucket now.

Anyway, the second day was bloody busy. Heh, I'm sounding like Ron and I’ve not even met the poor chap.

I managed to buy a set of cutlery, culinary equipment and stuff and bribed a store-hand into carrying it back to the apartment for me. I’m not sure how much a hundred pounds is worth compared to 2016 Australian dollaroos, but given how his eyes budged I assume that it was money well wasted.

He probably needs it more than me.

Wait. He has a job. I won’t for a decade or so. Wait again. That sort of implies that I won’t be out of here in a year or four. Well… Nope, I'm not going to think about this too much.

Moving forward, there was a quite amusing and vaguely tear-jerking thing that happened later. I needed to shop for clothes. It was quite clear that having only one pair was unacceptable, so I walked off to one of the fancy-pantsy shops further down Charing Cross road. I walked around the clothes for a good twenty minutes before deciding that I had no fucking clue what size I was or what I should get.

Ahhh. I remember it like it was yesterday. Because it was.

 

 

What the fuck is this? What the fuck is that? What the fuck are those?

I need help. Moreso than usual.

Ah, is that an unattended store clerk in the distance? Salvation, thine hair is blond and thy nametag says ‘Hi, I'm: Sarah!’

“Um, excuse me?”

“Oh, hi there. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I, uh, I just need a little help with a few things,” HA, only a few things he says.

“Alright, what do you need help with?” Her accent is… Welsh? Probably not. I have no fucking clue about English accents.

“Well…” Time to engage maximum manipulation mode, “My parents used to pick out all of my clothes, and now that… now that they’re g-gone, I-I’m having trouble getting replacements.” I totally meant to include those stutters. It was for realism’s sake. Nothing else.

Sarah seems a little confused and surprised for a moment before she says, “Of course I’ll help you out. Do your parents know that you’re here?”

I clench my fist as I repeat, “They’re gone.” She seems to get it now. And I seem to be collecting dust in my eyes. Odd that they only choose to water up now.

She walks me over to the children’s section, asking if I knew my clothing sizes. I don’t.

Apparently that’s no problem. Somehow. How the hell is she going to tell what size I am? That’s a real sort of fucking witchcraft.

And she’s now asking what sort of clothes I want. Fuck it, I’ll have boy’s clothes exclusively. This is probably the last year that I’d be able to get away with that. She gives me an odd look that disappears quickly, but I, not being a mentally deficient eleven-year-old, notice the look. That does not mean I know what it meant.

“What is your name, sweetie?” Ah, it appears that she wants to confirm my gender through my name. Jokes on her, Taylor is a unisex name.

That seems to be enough for her as she picks out a wide range of clothes at my behest.

Then comes the inevitable “who is going to pay for you Taylor, sweetie?” She seems to like that word a bit too much. Also, do I really look that young? Is it not considered normal for an eleven-year-old to be alone? So many questions, so little interest in answering them.

“Don’t worry, I will.”

Then comes the inevit-“does that mean you’re here alone?” That is not what I expected.

“Yup,” a confident answer for an unimportant question.

She brings me up to the counter and takes a few moments to whisper to the checkout chick. That can only lead to good things, I am sure.

I pay with a few million pounds or something close to that, and quickly struggle out the door with my bag of neutron degenerate matter. For those of you not in the know, that means that it’s really fucking heavy.

 

 

And yeah. Nothing came of it. So far anyway. And it wasn’t so much quite amusing and vaguely tear-jerking as quite tear-jerking and vaguely amusing, but that’s advertising for you.

Now I have cutlery, clothes, cleaning and cooking equipment, so that means that I'm set for the rest of the… the newspaper in front of me says it’s Monday the 26th of August. So, only a few more days to go.

I wonder what I should do now?

And in a showing of irrevocable proof that the universe can actually hear my thoughts, I hear a knocking sound at the door.

Lovely.


	6. Counterfeit 1.6

It’s her. Why is it always her?

Well, it has never been her before, but that’s sort of beside the point. I want to groan and grumble goddamit.

Minerva McGonagall, in the flesh – or, rather, in the hazard suit- I am starting to suspect that being alone for a week has been rather detrimental to my sanity. And my focus. The hazardous environment suit looks nothing like the flowing emerald robes and tartan print clothes that the prim and proper witch before me wore. Dressed in her stereotypical witch’s hat and equipped with her most polite and simultaneously stern facial expression, she cut quite the impressive figure.

An impressive figure that I had been staring at for quite some time now. Ah.

“Hello?” I only just manage to squeak out. Excellent. Two for two on bad first impressions with Hogwarts teachers.

“Good morning, I am Professor Minerva McGonagall and I am here to talk to Taylor Cochlain and her parents about shopping for school supplies.”

That’s actually kind of odd. Shouldn’t she have said something about being accepted into Hogwarts? Oh wait, I supposedly got my acceptance letter last year, meaning that somebody should have already convinced my family about the whole ‘magic ‘n shit be real dude’ shebang.

“Oh, please come in. Would you like some tea?” That’s the correct English thing to do, right? Wait, I'm supposed to be Irish. Eh, fuck it.

“Thank you, I would love some.”

We walk into the living room where I gesture her to a seat, and prepare some tea. It doesn’t take particularly long, but gives me a little time to figure out a game plan. I had a vague hope that they would send Quirrell or Trelawney, but let us be fair; one of them is dangerous to be around children, and the other hosts a mass murderer in their turban.

Like all good things, the tea preparing/stalling comes to an end and I have to face reality. On a side note, apparently McGonagall likes tea with a dash of sugar and milk. Hey look, I'm stalling again.

I let out a quiet sigh, before sitting before my esteemed guest. “So, how may I help you today?”

When in doubt fall back on retail training, I suppose.

“I presume that you are Taylor?” Ah, yes that would be something important for her to confirm, as I never got around to introducing myself. A quiet nod and hum of affirmation is all she gets from me, my mouth busy with the splendour of tea.

“Are your parents here today?” I set down the tea and take a deep breath.

“T-They are not. I’m here alone for the time being.” I have the faintest glimmer of hope that she’ll just accept that and allow-

“When will they be returning? I would rather include them in this conversation.” And like that, all hope is gone.

“They won’t be returning. The police,” deep breath, come on. You can do this, “The police say that it is u-unlikely that they will be ever found.” It’s a pretty convenient lie, I think.

I see an intense flash of emotions across her face, from shock and surprise to pity and sadness.

“I-I am sorry,” she begins delicately, “are your… guardians present?”

And now beings the hardest part of the sell.

“I don’t have any guardians.”

Her eyebrows ascend into the heavens before scrunching back together in a fit of pure disbelief.

“I am sorry, but do you mean that you live here alone?”

“Sorta, I do get checked up on, but this is the compromise that was reached with-“ I halt there. I don’t want to invoke any agency names, otherwise she might check with them and find nothing. I need to be vague, yet somehow be convincing. And also explain why I stopped talking mid-sentence.

“Professor, I can see that you are somewhat shocked,” I think I hear her mutter ‘somewhat shocked’ under her breath, “I understand that this might seem rather odd, but I really think it is for the best.”

She gives me this ‘orly’ look, so I suppose I need to give her the ‘rly, rly’ speech then. I also need to break out my grade A muggle society bullshit. I seriously hope that she is nearly as bad as the rest of magical society at understanding muggle norms.

“Professor, while this may look very disconcerting to you, the truth is that I am content with the situation. I would absolutely hate to live in an orphanage. I feel that going to a foster home would be little more than spitting upon the memory of my parents. I don’t have any immediate family or trusted close friends, so there is nobody else to stay with. The arrangement that I have now leaves me here alone, and that is something that I am perfectly happy with. I am not sure what is normal for the magical world, but here in the, uh” I fumble for a moment, looking for a word to replace ‘muggle’, “non-magical world this is an accepted practice. Sure, it may be rare and unconventional, but I believe that it is the best solution for my case.”

She really doesn’t seem convinced. I hope that her knowledge of the muggle world can’t disprove my lies.

“Taylor, you might see it that way, but this is really a deplorable situation for you to be in. The – police have not properly taken care of you. Please, tell me who set this situation up, so that we can start to fix it.” Fuck.

“No”

“Excuse me?”

“I won’t tell you. If I do, you will mess everything that I have worked so hard to set up. Please, don’t do anything. Please.” Pretty please, don’t pry any further. “I really do appreciate that you are concerned, but it is how it is, and it’s starting to get old, the whole ‘you live by yourself?’ thing. So, could we please move past that and talk about shopping for school supplies?”

With any luck this will work. It’s not her jurisdiction, and she is a teacher, not a policewoman or anything. Nor is she an Auror.

Her lips purse as if she has just eaten a particularly rotten lemon, before flattening into a very tight line, which could be generously called a frown. Her eyes search my face for a few tense moments.

“Very well,” she sighs, “I am available to take you to Diagon Alley to retrieve the required materials for the year. Any time during this week we could go, whenever is best for your schedule.”

“Could we go now? I don’t have anything planned for this afternoon, and I have all the money I would need with me now.”

She seems rather surprised with that, but quickly dismisses that reaction in favour of agreeing.

We slowly finish our tea. It tastes like victory, soured by the bitter tang of lies. I don’t like it.


	7. Counterfeit 1.7

The Great Journey from my apartment to the Leaky Cauldron was fraught with danger and adventure. And that was as much a lie as the Great Journey from Halo was. McGonagall somehow hid her fabulous, but impractically huge witches hat. Somehow. That thing was fucking huge, where the hell did she put it? Actually, why am I saying this, I have an undetectable extension charm on my purse, she could easily have one of those in a pocket.

Not to mention she is a transfiguration professor too. Bloody wizards. And witches too, I suppose.

But I digress, we managed to walk there without alerting any of the people of London. And in the process, I discovered what the meaning of true awkward silence was.

I had experienced something like it before. That awkward silence when you talk to somebody and then have no clue what to say next. This time, it was the awkward silence that follows a fight where both people care for each other but have no clue where the conflict came from, nor how to address it.

And in a manner of speaking, it was quite like that. I’m fairly empathetic, so I absolutely hate the fight we had at the apartment. And don’t mistake it for anything else. I could see that she was still fuming a bit about it. Every few moments she looked like she was going to mutter something, but thought the better of it. That and she was not too subtle about sending stern and pitying looks at me every few minutes.

I wonder what she is going to do about it. I didn’t mention anything specific, so she shouldn’t have any ability to definitively disprove what I said. Probably.

The Leaky Cauldron is not a cauldron, but it is certainly leaky. A mild draft drifts through the magical pub, laden with the smell of best food that English culture had seen fit to grace the world with. Too bad I hate pies.

As we walk towards the back of the pub, I try to catch a glimpse of the barkeeper, Tom, but the Cauldron was practically deserted. I hadn’t really thought things through, but I vaguely thought that I might walk through the Cauldron at the same time as Harry Potter did by some super special awesome coincidence. It was a stupid thought, Harry must have done so months ago, on his birthday.

As we pass through the partially decrepit (in that half-charming, half-worrying way) building, we exit into the barren courtyard at the back of the building. Ahead of me is the infamous brick wall that the Bayformers would be so proud of. It grinds and groans as it folds in upon itself, but I barely notice. Before me is the captivating and bustling Diagon Alley.

 

 

I don’t want to bore you with the details of my shopping. I’ve done that already. The point is that we stopped for an ice-cream at Florean Fortescue’s place after a brief jaunt around the shops.

 

 

We sit in contemplative silence eating our ice-creams. I hadn’t expected her to buy one, but she was happily enjoying her scoop of chocolate and mint ice-cream. Well, when I say enjoying, I couldn’t really tell, her facial expression being much like a cat’s; stern and unchanging. Very appropriate, considering that she is a cat animagus. I sort of hope that is isn’t much of an imposition on her, I do really hate troubling people.

Isn’t that a funny thought. I sign up to help Voldemort with little hesitation, but I don’t want to bother a school teacher too much. What sort of bad guy am I?

On that note, does that make me a death eater? Probably. Do I get a robe and fancy mask now?

There is something that I have been mulling over for a little bit now. Whether I should go and do the full nelson and pretend to be Taylor, the girl, or if I should tell McGonagall about the whole… no gender business. On one hand, it would help me justify my housing to McGonagall, using it as a ‘valid’ reason why I can’t live with regular people. On the other hand, it may cause undue suspicion and would be awkward as fuck. Then again, it would be equally awkward pretending to be a girl.

I can’t say that I am entirely comfortable with the idea of being a girl for the period of my stay. Mind you, I don’t intend to stay for too long, so that sorta mitigates that. However, I don’t intend in following the usual route of becoming a girly girl, complete with stylish outfits and other shit.

Fuck it; I'm going full agender, Tumblr eat your heart out. I'm not dealing with the issues that would inevitably come up should it be revealed at a later date. I’m like, sixty-three percent certain that my simulacrum body will not grow up properly.

Now, how to approach this…

“Professor?”

She takes a few seconds to put her glass of ice-cream aside.

“Yes, Taylor?”

“I, uh, have something important to tell you.” I look around and lean forward a bit, “I’m not actually a girl.”

Eyebrows, you have gone orbital. Probably the best response I could expect.

“Are you saying that- “

“I’m not a boy either,” I cut her off, “I’m… I am neither.”

That has her stunned. I don’t think she has ever dealt with a problem quite like this.

“It’s part of why I live alone,” I add, “Apparently it is a fairly rare medical condition. They didn’t think that it would be a good idea for me to, uh, be with normal people.”

I cringe a little at that explanation. I probably should have thought a bit more about what I wanted to say.

She remains silent for a few seconds, giving me ample time to fidget and start to bite my nails, before saying;

“I see,” she looks me dead in the eyes, “Taylor, all students are welcome at Hogwarts. You are no exception; I fully intend to make sure that you have a wonderful seven years with us.”

I smile a little at that. She really is a good person, I think. Also, preferably not seven years please. I do want to stick to my speedrun plan.

“Professor? I understand that you should share this with the other staff members, but I ask that you keep it from the other students. You know how needlessly cruel young children can be.”

She gives me a look, “Of course, Taylor.”

That probably sounded a tad pretentious, but I don’t care. It would be even more suspicious if I stopped now. I realise that I’ve used fairly non-eleven-year-old speech around Minerva, quite a lot. Oops.

We quickly finish our ice cream. It tastes bland, as if the burning of my cheeks is searing the flavour out. I’m not sure that I’m actually doing the right thing.


	8. Counterfeit 1.8

In the end, I bought all of the school equipment, a great deal of inconsequential items, various items that may or may not be useful later and an owl. I figured that I’d need some method of contacting people in the wizarding world, although that is more of a justification in hindsight. It really was just an impulse buy, the beautiful brown barred owl was just gazing into my soul, before emitting a sequence of short and sweet hoots and toots. It was perfect.

I originally was going to call it Owl just to irritate people, but eventually the name Connecticut was chosen, as I deemed it much more appropriate for my situation, drawing its name from ‘A Connecticut Yankee in Arthur’s Court’.

Beyond that, there was little worth mentioning; the trip continued in near silence as I was very uncomfortable with everything, and presumably McGonagall felt the same. She dropped me back to the apartment and left, not before asking once again if I was sure with the arrangement and practically begging me to owl her any issues that I might have.

In the days leading up to the train to school, I figured out one or two things about my new body.

I had just got out of a long, relaxing bath and was staring at myself in the mirror when inspiration struck.

 

My face is so different.

It’s a simple, obvious statement. But it is really super unnerving.

Watching Her chest as it rises and falls with my breaths.

Watching how Her eyes dart about, trying to catch their own movement.

Watching as Her jaw works as I try to process what I’m seeing.

Hearing Her breath quicken as I struggle to calm myself.

Seeing Her hands cover my eyes, as I try to hide myself from the truth.

That this body is not my own.

It lacks details. I might have said something to that effect before, but I can really see them now. Below my neck, all of my skin is a pale white, no details, no exceptions.

The chest is smooth, devoid of ribs or even nipples.

The knees lack the indents and extrusions that mark the kneecap assembly.

The hands are far too smooth, no tendons protrude from the back, no veins visible under the wrist.

This body is not Hers either.

It’s fake. Undeniably.

And that is a problem. Sure, I can get away with not having tits and the like, just need to be careful changing and ensure that I never join any quidditch team. The issue is with my legs, elbows and hands. They will be visible and they look wrong.

This doesn’t make any sense. What is the reason why my face looks like Her face, yet the body is a pale copy? Ha, pale copy.

I think back to my summoning. To the feeling of being a ghostly apparition, and being given a body. To that feeling of clay sprouting from nowhere and being given form.

When it happened, I was not in control. It was something that happened to me. But… it vaguely felt like I was doing it, just that it was being guided.

I reach for that feeling again. I desperately try to shape the body in the mirror.

The world… narrows. Everything is still there, but everything seems… less. But, if I really look around I can just feel the void between planes again. I can feel my ‘astral’ body.

This doesn’t make sense. I can look around with my body just fine. Actually, I notice a bit of lag there. My body takes a little while to twist its head, and even longer before the eyes refocus.

Even while I do that, I look around in sidereal space. I can do both, see everything and nothing, even as I see the pale face look back at me in the mirror.

I let the world narrow further. Sidereal space becomes more and more. I feel less and less from the body. I can see the world. I can see.

The body has fallen over. I command it to stand. It doesn’t. Input is too delayed in comparison to reactions. It flails, it falls again. It hurts itself. The right arm is bent, half way along, fifteen degrees out of alignment. Incorrect. Correcting. Correct. The arm is now straight.

Good.

This feels wrong.

The world widens. The astral plane recedes.

Holy shit, what the fuck was that?

No, what the ever-living shit was that? I felt like a fracking toaster! Everything was simplified. The world made sense. The world was limited. A world that was what I saw, and nothing else.

I pull myself towards the world. Whatever I am doing is influencing my thinking.

I feel about halfway. I can easily get my body standing, but it sways back and forth as it constantly overcorrects. I really want to leave, but I do want to try something.

When I fell, I damaged my arm. Disregarding the fact that it acted more like a metal, just bending instead of breaking, my body was able to repair itself. I do say repair, not heal; it really didn’t feel like that. I am more sure than ever that my body isn’t organic.

Point being, I want to do it again. Not break my arm, shape my body.

I replicate the feeling. It’s something along the lines of a pale blue noise in the back of my head.

I will for my face to change. It does.

Holy shit.

I can have my body back!

I quickly set out to reshaping my body. Let’s see…

No, that’s not right/that looks wrong/that looks downright scary.

Come on, get it done/what am I doing wrong/what do I even look like?

I can’t do it.

I _know_ what I look like. And whatever I do to this body looks outright wrong.

I smile at my reflection. She looks a little livelier, a few changes here and there giving the body new life.

I gave myself the tools to return to my body. And even then, I can’t do it.

The smile grows. It is not a happy smile. It is a smile of somebody who thought they had solved all of their problems. Only to realize they didn’t know how to.


	9. Counterfeit 1.9

Over many years, I have developed an extremely effective method of dealing with any issues that come my way. It is simplistic, holistic and data driven. Not only that, it allows for a great deal of latitude in regards to how I plan and then deal with the issue. It also has an accompanying plan for resolving the issue, once again, simplistic, holistic and data driven.

  
Namely, this method is called ‘Ignore the Issue at All Costs’ and its accompaniment is called ‘Hope It Goes Away’.

  
If neither of these well-honed and time honoured plans work, there is also plan ‘Drown it in Alcohol’, and its cousin, ‘Ignore Your Phone and Emails for As Long as Humanly Possible’.

  
Considering that emails and mobile phones are a thing of the future, and that alcohol is something that I'm not likely to get my dirty paws on any time soon, I hope you can guess which plan I chose.

  
In immediate contravention of that plan, I have to report a few changes to my body. Beyond fixing any visible anatomy, like kneecaps, elbows and sculpting various bones and tendons into my skin, I have undertaken a mild upgrade of my skin. I no longer have ‘bleach white’ skin, now I only have ‘whitest person you’ll ever meet’ coloured skin. Just like I once had.

  
Ignore the issue at all costs. Thank you very much.

 

I did a bit of scouting today, considering that the train is only a day or two away. Firstly, I visited Southern Cross. No, that’s in Australia. Kings Cross? Christ on the Cross train station.

  
How have I forgotten its name? I was only there a few hours ago, for fucks sake.

  
Lapses in memory aside, I looked around and found the infamous platform nine and ¾. Well, not completely, I found platform 9-10, assumed that was good enough and went for a coffee break. Par for course really.

  
One of these days my inability to complete things is going to hurt me. Also, my coffee drinking habits can’t be good either. I must be approaching half a litre a day of the stuff.

  
Maybe I should google coffee toxicity.

  
…

  
I don’t know how to use a library, nor do I have the patience to figure out how.

  
I guess that question is going unanswered.

  
I also had a bit of a quick chat with Tom, the owner of the Leaky Cauldron pub. He is an odd fella, I’ll give you that, but I think he is a goodish person at heart.

  
Not entirely sure, especially with the characterization in the third movie.

  
Either way, he cooks up a mean sausage roll, something I’ve pleasantly found to be quite reminiscent of Australian food. Which is a good thing, I assure you.

  
With a little bit of tomato sauce and a Victoria Bitters I could imagine being home.

  
I left soon after.

 

 

Anyway, unpleasant allusions to being homesick aside, I’ve got to catch that train tomorrow. Which means that be on my a-game, looking sharp and arriving on time. Contrary to what I’ve demonstrated, I actually plan ahead of everything I do. The issue is the maxim about plans and contact with the enemy.

  
Anyway, I think I’ll try to look smart and smart, both intelligent and well kempt, hopefully impressing both Hermione and Harry in one go. And if I can’t get to his heart in one go, it’s not really important. Harry never appeared to be the sort of person who only cared about first impressions.

  
All I really have to do is hang around him at school. Just simply interact with whatever he seems to be doing at the moment. All that interaction should put me in a favourable light, especially compared with the rest of our year level. And probably more importantly, I can eventually leverage future knowledge and the ability to not be a total dick as a force multiplier in coming years. Especially with the ‘Heir of Slytherin’ and Goblet of Fire fiascos. Being level headed is all that is required.

  
Hermione on the other hand is my real target. I suspect that she will be friends with Harry, no matter what happens. And importantly, she is one of the few people that Harry consistently heard advice from.

  
If I can get my claws into her, it would only be a matter of leveraging that relationship.

  
And even more importantly, gaining her friendship would be easy. I was identical to Hermione when I was young. Hand up for every question. Desperate to show off to everybody that I knew what I talked about. Desperate to see some sort of validation from my peers. Knowing that I was pushing them away but unable to change, not knowing what to do.

  
Those first months before Harry and Ron saved her from the Troll were when she was at her lowest, when she had nobody to lean on in the entire school. She had alienated everybody.

  
That will be my opportunity.

  
That is all I have to do. Listen to her. Let her have that validation. And like that, she should fold neatly into my plans.

  
Probably.

  
I’m mildly unsure how Harry will react.

  
Also, look at all those tenses. Past, past perfect, present, future, future perfect and future conditional. Probably a few more in there too, because English is weird like that.

  
More distractions. Joy.

 

All this plotting leaves a dirty taste in my mouth. It could be the coffee I'm drinking, but I somehow doubt it. It tinges the pleasant taste of a pleasant cappuccino with the distinctly unpleasant dregs of unpleasantly.

  
And it appears that I'm out of adjectives for today. Come back tomorrow for the Hogwarts Express holiday extravaganza. Probably with one hundred percent more awkward silences!


	10. Counterfeit 1.10

I have thought of a brilliant plan to get in the same compartment as Harry. So, I’ll conveniently not tell you it, as doing so would break the ‘unspoken plan guarantee’. In light of that, here is what has happened so far.

I rocked up to the station half an hour early. I quickly bought a crappy coffee from a crappy place before looking for platforms nine and ten. That didn’t take long, neither did surreptitiously following some older students to the appropriate column. After they walked through, I slowly sidled up to it, before very gently pushing the tip of the cart through the wall. Confirming that this was the correct barrier, I grinned slightly as I made my way through the pillar to platform 9¾. The station wasn’t really all that packed yet, so I made my way over to the back of the station up against the wall and waited.

And that is what I’ve been doing for fifteen minutes now. I’ve drawn a few stares and even more disapproving glances, but I'm sure that is just due to the coffee, not any inherent issue with me. Or they are blood purists and can smell my mudbloodness like sharks in a place where sharks are commonplace. And huddle around talking to their children. Idiomatic expression derailed. Idiot.

Hopefully I don’t do the same on the train.

Ooh, what’s this? Do I spy a big Weasley with my little eye? Yes, I do; big old… somebody!

Followed shortly by the fabulous twins and the good Ronald, an excellent Harry, a little Ginny and some boisterous Molly.

Very good. Now, I can execute part two of my dastardly plan.

I move over to a Victorian styled rubbish bin over to the side of the platform. Which makes no sense, because I'm fairly sure that they didn’t have rubbish bins like that in the Victorian era. Despite that, I still make use of it, depositing my near empty coffee and stalling for time.

I keep a firm eye on Harry, and once I'm sure of which carriage he gets onto, I make a beeline towards it.

Getting onto the train was a bit of an adventure, but by sheer virtue of not actually having real muscles, nor true nerve endings, I was able to lever the trunk off the platform and into the train without hurting myself.

Slowly walking along the corridor, I make sure to check each cabin, scanning for a small soulless ginger, and a green eyed boy. Ouch, that was a bit harsh. I mean, I'm a redhead too.

Looking into the next cabin, I strike gold; now to follow up with a six, or even better, complete the trifecta of irrelevant metaphors by planting the bomb at B.

I need social contact asap.

Also, I need to go into the compartment.

“Hi there, all the other carriages are full. Mind if I sit with you two?”

The two look at each other before shrugging.

“Sure,” Harry invites me in slightly apprehensively.

“Thanks,” I smile as I walk in, before trying to lift my case onto the overhead racks.

Oh fu- this is embarrassing.

“Uhhh… Could you help me with this?”

Harry jumps to his feet before Ron, who takes a few more moments before he rises.

Between the three of us, we eventually lift the case over our heads and place it in the rack.

We probably looked like a bunch of idiots though.

“Thanks for that. Really appreciate it.”

“It’s okay,” Ron smiles modestly, before sticking out his hand. “I’m Ron. Ron Weasley.”

“Taylor Cochlain, pleasure to meet you.” I genuinely say as I grasp his hand.

“And you are?” I inquire to Harry. That honestly feels odd.

“Harry. Harry Potter.” Harry mimics Ron’s introduction. Kids.

“Good to meet you too,” I say as I sit down next to Harry, across from Ronald.

“So...” I stall, “You two first years too?”

Typically a safe question at Uni, why not here?

“Yeah!” Harry exclaims with a lot more enthusiasm than I would have expected.

Only now do I actually get a good look at the two of them. While Harry’s clothes are not the highest quality or fitted the best, they honestly look like something that I would have worn at his age. I really liked baggy clothes.

Not sure what that says about me, where my clothes were the same as a neglected orphan.

Hn.

Also, nobody has said anything for a while.

More filler questions?

“So, I'm kinda new to this magic thing. What about the two of you?”

“Harry’s new, just like you.” Ron answers for Harry in an act of impetus that I don’t really expect of him. “My whole family’s magic, though.”

I hum in an encouraging manner.

“Three of my brothers will be here this year too,” Ron says with looks to be mixed pride and envy, “Percy’s prefect this year.”

Harry seems to nod in understanding so I just mimic him.

“And there’s the twins, George and Fred. They’re- well.”

I move to encourage him to talk, when I feel two sharp pokes in my sides, just under the rib cage.

I do not squeak in a shrill and panicked fashion. You will never be able to prove it in court.

Leaping to my feet, I twirl to see the grinning visages of George and Fred standing in the entrance to the carriage, their long arms retreating from the offensive.

“When we heard our dearest little brother call our names, we couldn’t help but introduce ourselves in person.” One of the twins announces, a devious ring to his voice.

“George, don’t bother her! It’s not even the first day!” Surprisingly, Ron is quick to come to my defence.

“Ahhh,” the other twin opines, “So defensive! She your girlfriend or something?”

Ron begins to splutter, and may possibly be able to rejoinder sometime in the next hour, give or take. A quick glance back shows that Harry is keenly observing the situation, but clearly has no idea how to react to it. That’s fair. At their age, that would probably be a fairly cruel attack and would stump the wittiest eleven-year-old.

Normally I’d just ignore it and move forward with the conversation. But… They are _the_ Weasley Twins.

Despite being the subject matter of the joke, I’m not the intended recipient. Presumably, a girl my age would either get very outraged or break down crying. They aren’t heartless, just in this case thoughtless. The twins probably didn’t consider me in the slightest and wouldn’t really expect me to respond.

Like I said, I’d normally ignore this and continue, but this is an opportunity. I could take a crack at impressing the twins. Or just getting them to fuck off, which is equally preferable.

So, to turn this around… I don’t have much in the way of ammunition to use on them, nor do I have any personal connections. I can pretty much only work with what they’ve said and use it against them. So, neutralize the barb with acceptance and a refuge in audacity? 

Sure.

“I actually am his girlfriend,” I try to say as nonchalantly as I can. Step one, admit their jibe and remove its scandal. “We’ve been dating for months now. Ronnie-boy is one helluva catch.”

I hear something resembling a cat drowning behind me as I grin at the twins. They swivel their heads as one to face me, incredulous impressions on their face.

Step two; say something outrageous, preferably related to the topic.

“What I want to know,” I purr as I step toward them. “Are the next set of Weasleys just as good? Or youse gonna be a disappointment?”

Their faces burn as they stutter and try to get a coherent response out of their mouth. I’m sure my face would be the same, had it been a real one, not a fake imitation.

Way to put a damper on the mood.

I’ll just ignore the thought.

The twins look like they might be on the cusp of finding a witty retort, so I save them the trouble.

“Yeah, nah. I’m just fucking with you. You were being a right pair of twats, though. Were I anybody else, I’d’a probably taken offense or some shit.”

They quickly come to a decision, say a nearly audible ‘sorry’, mutter an excuse about Lee Jordan and his tarantula and fuck right off.

I turn around to face the music.

It appears the music is a pair of silent, red faced boys.

As I butcher more and more idioms, I grow further from salvation.

Finally, I decide to provide a level of mercy to the star struck boys.

“Okay, I’m sorry for that Ron. They were being a bit mean to you and I figured I could get back at them.”

“It’s okay.” He mutters quietly and quickly.

Perhaps I should limit the amount of damage I can do today?

I pull out a book from my bag and let Harry and Ron get distracted by something out the window. I’ve left a big enough impression I think.

**Author's Note:**

> G'day everybody.  
> First of all, thank you for reading a fic with such a bad summary.  
> Secondly, I'd like to talk about the fic itself for a little bit. I intend to update it every now and then, but I really have no ability to have a regular schedule. It is cross-posted on FF, and after about fifteen chapters it will go up on SB/SV.  
> I am trying my hand at first person, stream of thought style narration, with a heavy emphasis on realism. By that, I do mean that I will try to avoid any OOC behavior from just about everybody and try to have people interact like humans, not moving plot points as is so common in SI fics. Meaning, no bashing, no exposition characters, no random coincidences that cause plot points and with any luck, a logical progression of events (as much as that is possible in the land of HP) that should be easy to follow.  
> I want to see how my character evolves through its time in this world. How it continues to justify its own existence, what it is doing and just in general how the world around it changes.
> 
> Anyway, I'd be thrilled to get any feedback.  
> Cheers


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